


In Another Lifetime

by myria_chan



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Faith of the Seven, Multiverse, Near Death, Reincarnation, Seven AU, Soulmates, no regrets, one fic, the things we do for love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 22:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18765544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myria_chan/pseuds/myria_chan
Summary: In which, by the blessing of the Seven Gods, Jaime Lannister is granted seven lifetimes to make up to Brienne of Tarth.alternatively: The humble AU’s 8x4 oh so graciously enabled.





	In Another Lifetime

**Author's Note:**

> Listen fam, we are strong. We waited 7 years for a bang that blew awkwardness in proportions we never even knew was possible. It was sweet. It was sentimental. It was monumental as fuck. Ours is a ship that sailed so naturally, even non-readers and non-viewers are calling it canon. J/B will survive despite of J’s stupidity. Here is to Brienne and Jaime being endgame, and the other lifetimes we so obsessively fantasize about. Keep strong! :D

* * *

* * *

  
Jaime is never fond of faith. There is nothing reassuring in resigning life to the whims and fancies of Gods. Yet in his final moments, he prays.

He prays for another life—a thousand of them, should they permit—a thousand of chances to be with her. In another lifetime, he will meet her first, and she will be his last. In another lifetime, he will atone for the wrongs he has done. He will love her wholeheartedly, most ardently. He will let his imperfections be embraced, match the broken pieces of his heart with hers, and commit to their happiness.

In another lifetime, theirs will be the love that will last.

Jaime closes his eyes, lets his heart hope; breathes her name like a prayer.

 

* * *

This is divine retribution.

In this lifetime, Jaime Lannister embraces his darkness, decides to forsake the world that has forsaken him. He is a man on the murky side of law, philandering upon the lives of the innocent in a twisted sense of justice. There is no fixing him. There is no hope for him. No family to hold onto. No oaths to uphold. No loyalty to tie him down.

It’s as if all the repressed anger has decided to pour out in tidal waves of ashes, flooding kingdoms in rivers of blood, singing to the melody of his victim’s screams, breathing a reputation of senseless, unquenchable, inescapable madness befitting of a Slayer.

Until her.

In the face of mass destruction, she remains ever pure and gallant: a picture perfect knight of the seven kingdoms, gun drawn to him like a sword, eyes blazing with recognizable honor, bluer than truth, more potent than sin.

He doesn’t know her, but his soul recognizes her.

He takes one look at her astonishing blue eyes and he is done.

Every senseless massacre is for this. Every carnage unwrought is for this.

She fires three warning shots right through his chest.

Lying in a pool of his blood, his mouth lifts to a smile for the first time.

Finally he gets to die in the arms of the woman he loves.

* * *

  
She is the most beautiful woman he has ever met.

This woman will teach him how to love, like the seven other lifetimes she taught him. This woman shall be the cornerstone of his morality, the bible to his heart and soul. He will understand humanity through her lenses. Her wisdom will mold him to the man he’s always meant to become.

Kind and committed, gentleness coupled with a shrewd sense discipline—her walls lay unguarded to the sight of his smile, the music of his laughter; as if he is the most precious thing this world has ever offered her.

Hers will be his eyes, and he will utilize every ounce of his feeble existence to reciprocate the life she’s given him.

_We don’t get to choose who we love._

“Mama,” he manages; the first words he says as this version of Brienne welcomes her baby boy in her arms.

* * *

  
Jaime decides to cut the chase and clamor straight right into bed.

Or at least Jamie Lannister believes, the Bride of Casterly Rock, a title begrudgingly given up by her reputable twin sister Cersei in her conquest of marriage to the highest bidder Westeros has to offer. Her fate is to be sold like fine cattle—an overly glorified consolation prize to the Lords of the Land—the pale carbon copy to the most beautiful woman of in the Seven Kingdoms, esteemed only by the name and gold mines of the House by which she is birthed upon. She is to sit in the sidelines while men fawn and gawk and slobber over her sweet sister as she fervently waits for the next best left over.

That is until this afternoon’s tourney.

Brian of Tarth, the Blue Knight from the Sapphire Isle, champion to knights and lords of the Realms, places a wreath of winter roses upon her lap. Never had she felt more wanted, more beautiful, more alive. He honors her with his victory.

She honors him with a kiss in the confines of his bedchamber.

In the middle of night.

Brian pulls back and holds her at arm’s length. “My lady, this is highly inappropriate.”

Jamie rolls her eyes heavenward. “It’s Renly, isn’t it? It’s always going to be Renly?” Even in this lifetime, Brian is in love with Renly, and given his sex, Renly can now fully apply the fullest of his perversions to young, innocent, sweet Brian of Tarth.

He frowns at her. “Renly Baratheon is your betrothed.”

Well, there is that… complication. Renly is betrothed to Jamie. Jamie is in love with Brian. Brian is sworn to Renly. She supposes their love will always be littered by unwarranted complications. Nothing a little nightly tryst cannot fix.

“I am loyal to Renly,” he tries in vain.

She smiles unbefitting of a lady of her station, drops her dressing robe in short order.

“Fuck loyalty.”

* * *

  
This is not a love story.

This is a matter of principle. The first time he sees her, he knows she is the one—the one he has pledged to atone for all the horrible things his past lives has conjured.

She is as every bit of a walking disaster than their previous lifetimes, diagnosed with an incurable disease that has maxed out her finances, her character, and her relationships. Yet she remains unbesmirched by life’s most precarious of tribulations, handling a death sentence with the strength of her spirit and a contagious sense of optimism.

“I have insurance,” he offers, surprising even himself, “I have excellent medical care privileges.”

An unshapened eyebrow rises. “Are you bragging, Dr. Lannister?” she chortles his name as if she is stuck between chuckling at his sudden declaration and clobbering him with an IV pole for the inanity of it.

“I’m asking you to marry me,” sounds infinitely more confident and less obtuse in his mind.

A beat—a myriad of emotion dances against the shadows of her blue eyes; Jaime commits every color into memory. Swallowing, she gauges his proposition in scrutiny. “I… I don’t understand. What’s in for you?”

“I dreamed of you.”

* * *

“Blue is a good color on you, detective. It brings out the color of your eyes.”

Detective Tarth barely bats her eyelashes, although the distinct coloring of cheeks betrays her denial in tone of reds and pinks, far more appetizing than the file of evidence she wordlessly submits to his table.

There is no escaping her, Jaime realizes, rejoices.

He live this life in honor, prosecuting every lowlife King’s Landing has to offer, making the world a better place one closed case at a time. He tells the world it’s for the people; that he swears to keep the peace for the innocent and uphold the justice of the land to the best of his defenses.

But nothing is more rewarding than existing in a reality where they can do it together, on the same side of justice.

If he can reinvent himself, embrace the strength of his goodness and manage to still find her, to fight with her, live a life with her, then praises be to the Seven Gods and all of their mercies.

* * *

  
_You ought to be thanking me, wench!_

Jaime scribbles furiously at her coffee cup sleeve the moment she places her order, because who, in their fucking minds, elects for antagonism and seething resentment at the guy who basically stood up for her reputation.

Sure that punch has had him suspended, the reunion with his estranged father in the principal’s office an unwelcome surprise, his disappointment as palpable and thunderous as the emergency trip to his orthopedic surgeon on a Monday, of all days, but bloody hell, he’d rather have his hand wrecked in a million pieces than have her name soiled and crushed by the stupidity of men who can’t look pass her homely beauty and ungainly appearance.

The ungrateful wench—Jaime’s anger brewing faster than the coffee beans—who never bothered telling him she dated three different guys before coming down to this sidestreet cafe stand, wearing her thrice-damned broken heart on her sleeves like a badge of honor when it should be safely protected in the palm of his hands.  
If they are in medieval times, she ought to throw herself in his arms with maidenly kisses and declare her mutual admiration over his blatant display of chivalry.

* * *

  
He’s supposed to be dead.

Or at least, should he been. This feels like death.

Breathing is a labor.

The air is dry, stale and prickly; it attacks his battered chest and ribs in metered breathing and agonizing huffs. There is vile in his mouth, ashes from defeat and reborn, tongue thick, throat parched. Head is heady, pain intermingling with senses barely functioning, body as light as a feather bench-pressed against hollow blocks and concrete, his own pulse made him weak. Dimly, his eyes dance with the shadows and planes, fragments of light shifts through fractures across the humble tent bearing the Starks colors. He is held down by quilts made from furs and cottony wool and for a moment, Jaime wants nothing more than to sink into oblivion.

“You lived.”

His head snaps in attention. “You’re here.”

She’s as beautiful as the day he left her, blue eyes brighter than any humble light can provide, sitting at his bedside—a dutiful sentinel, a devoted maiden, clad in the armor he fashioned after the color of her eyes and the sunburst of her house. Tears sprung forth hot and weighty on his worn out lids, blurring her from his vision in edges like splotches against a well-crafted canvas, images spilling in pools of colors. His chest heaves, catches a deep breath, and deduces he doesn’t mind spending an eternity drowning in the oceans of her eyes.

“I am a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms,” Brienne begins, temper in check, “I beat the Hound. I kept my vows to a noble lady of house, and her daughters. I executed the man who murdered the first king I served. I commanded a fragmented flank against the army of the dead and lived to tell the tale. And your plan was to sideline me to the role of damsel in distress, forever weeping over the loss of the love her life—the noble hero who saved the Realm from fire and tyrants.” Her cold, captivating blues eyes that glare at him as if he is the very vermin that crawled upon the Seven Hells to bring havoc upon this Realm.

“Stereotypically male.”

He licks his lips, mouth dry. “I have the most honorable of intentions—”

“Highly unoriginal.”

“… couldn’t bear to risk your life over my personal affairs—”

“Overly redundant.”

“I wanted to protect you.”

Her gaze softens, almost affectionate, like a lover’s caress, soothing pass his harsh declaration, before she drops the anvil.

“Who’s protecting me from you?” barely a whisper, almost an accusation. “You’re resigning me to life without you. Who’s protecting me from you?”

This is a woman who overcame tradition because of him. This is a woman who defied all expectations in the name of honor and duty for him. This woman has brought down her walls for him. And to see her crumble because of him…

It’s excruciating.

“I don’t want you to die,” his voice croaks the last word, wanting, needing for her to understand that he’d rather face a thousand deaths than see her lose her life in his name. He is not worthy. He will never be worthy.

Slowly, she rises from her seat and kneels to his side. Gently, as gentle as first time she has touched him; she cups his face in both hands, as if to make sure he is real, to make sure he is alive. Then with a tenderness that is for him alone, she smiles.

“You are my death,” she says simply, bravely, certain and sincere as the threat that follows, “so please, shove your honorable intentions high up in your ass and live.”

There is softness in her eyes, in her tone, in her features—softer than any kiss they’ve shared, softer than a lover’ touch, than any stolen glances; softer than any words lay unspoken between them. Jaime is swept, drunk in delight, giddy in sweetness he never fully acknowledges he wanted, but desperately needed.

“Marry me.” Taken aback, she freezes, breath caught in between hopes and dreams. He does not let her go this time. He holds her left hand against the stubble of his cheek, while he plants a kiss at the palm of her right. “Tie me into a knot and never let me go. I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you, I swear, and a thousand of lifetimes after that if you’ll have me.”

There is no life after her. No oath, fealty, nor honor worth upholding than the vows he can make with her. No love greater than hers. Pledging his devotion is the least he can do.

Her face breaks, a multitude of sentiments brimming in her eyes like starbursts. Finally, with a voice shaking with its usual banter, she asks, “Shouldn’t you be the one on your knees?”

He exhales the breath he does not know he is holding. “You’ve always been the most unconventional of women.”

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspire an author and leave a comment/kudo below. Your feedback is much appreciated. Cheers!


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